The Winter Glass

Chapter Four: With Forked Tongue

Arthur glanced at Molly and rubbed a thumb over his chin nervously. "Tell you what kind of things, Ginny?" he asked her.

"The grown-up things," she replied, and blew at the puff of smoke that hung in the air. Outside, it started to rain on the snow. Ginny didn't turn around. Instead, she pressed her nose against the glass.

"Gin, that's like breaking a mirror!" The boy near Harry's age wore a look of horror.

I didn't see what the fuss was about because it was my first time to celebrate Longest Night like that. At the castle, the celebrations had revolved around drinking and dancing and debauchery. To the bourgeois, it's considered best if the child wishes something nice on the midnight candle for their family or friends, but the children are never told about this rule until there is a younger child to take their place. I don't know where this tradition came from. I don't understand it, either; what's the point in not telling the children? To my thinking, Ginny was simply expressing a reasonable desire.

Molly knelt before the boy. Her words came from behind a smile yet her voice was firm. "Remember what we talked about, Ron? Now that you're not the wish maker anymore, you can't say anything about it to anyone. Off to bed, children. Let's use this night for its intended purpose--sleeping." With a stern look for the other boys, she hustled Ron off to another room, I presume for a lecture.

No one slept well that night. The rain came pouring down, and everyone had one reason or another to be awake. I was worried that Harry and I would return to find our rooms flooded, I assume that most of the Weasley clan was disturbed by the words of the youngest, and those who had no care for either most likely couldn't stand the noise of water pounding on the roof. Instead of peaceful snoring there were the sounds of restless tossing and sighing. Every time I was nearly asleep, the crack of an icicle separating from the eaves to shatter on the ground jolted me awake again. I kept imagining one hitting me over the head on the way home.

We were a bleary, baggy-eyed crowd in the morning. A hint of tension hung in the air, so soon after a breakfast of toast and eggs, I gathered Harry (with no little trouble, as he'd become rather involved in a card game with the Weasley boys) and said our farewells to Molly and Arthur. We went over the roof to avoid the flooded mess in the street. Just as I made it over the sill, a knock came at the door followed by an answering yip.

"Pip!" Harry exclaimed, and made to turn back.

I don't know what possessed me. Suffice to say that the hair on the back of my neck stood up and that perhaps I'd heard something without realizing it--the sound of horses running muffled, or the rattle of a sword in its sheath. I clamped a hand over Harry's mouth, rather roughly, unfortunately, and shoved him down on the balustrade. He kicked and struggled beneath me in panic, but I held him fast. He had to trust me, or I would be done for. "Be still," I snapped.

By the time I managed to get Harry's arms and legs confined, someone had opened the door and men--two by the scuffling of their boots--came inside.

One man had a clipped, martial voice. "Arthur Weasley. Assistant to the local magistrate in affairs involving livestock disputes. Correct?"

"Yes." Arthur didn't sound sure of his answer.

"Forgive us for disturbing you on the holiday, but we've been granted freedom to pass in search of a traitor. We would be remiss if we did not protect and warn our neighbors and allies." The rustle of parchment being unrolled drifted out the window. "Have you seen this man?"

There was a moment's pause, and he went on. "Wanted for regicide, treason, kidnapping, and a number of other charges against the crown. He is presumed armed and dangerous."

"No," Arthur said, finally. "I don't recognize him."

"And what about the boy, the prince?"

Soft replies of 'no' gave me a rush of hope.

"Yes." A boy, one of the middle ones. My heart beat fast again. "He's very tall, about my size?"

The man snorted. "That will be all, I think. Thank you for your time." I heard his footsteps, and to my horror they came closer instead of fading away. "Is there some reason you have the window open in the dead of winter?"

"Oh, ah, good for the children, yes. Fresh air after a storm." Molly's voice grew louder as she moved to cut him off. I began to pray to a god I did not know that the man would not look down.

"For the children," the man repeated. "Well, you've certainly got quite a number, so perhaps there is something to it. We'll leave you to your celebrations. Good day."

"Good day," Arthur replied, and soon after I heard the sound of the latch. Someone, Arthur probably, walked across to the window facing the street. Twelve breaths later Ginny handed Pip out the window.

Arthur was right behind her. "They're moving off in the other direction, so if you go back the way you came over, perhaps you can pass unnoticed."

I looked for an answer in his eyes. I did not find one. "Why?" I whispered. "Why didn't you tell them?"

He turned his head away. "If you had done the things they said, you'd not still have Harry with you, I think. He'd be dead." Arthur grabbed Ginny, who was about to tumble headfirst over the windowsill, and pulled her inside. "Hurry now," he said, closing the window tightly.

Hurry we did, as best we could. The roofs and balustrades were a highway and we did not care to be seen by others on the same road. The wood and slate was wet and slick with patches of ice, and this time we didn't have piles of snow to bridge the gaps between peaks. Even the more flattened bits were a challenge. I had to take care to hide my face as we passed the occasional turret. It was common for children to go over the roofs, but grown men did not go this way so often.

Halfway back, Harry stopped. "Come on. There's no time," I panted out.

Harry stood his ground, unconsciously mimicking the posture his father used to use when he was meeting an equal. His question came out in a white-hot cloud against the cold air. "Is it true? Should I be dead?"

I sat down right there on the roof, one hand on a patch of moss. Every time I turned around Harry questioned me. I expected no less from a son of James. But the question brought home one clear point. Should he have been dead?

Arthur was wrong. I could easily have taken Harry straight home and placed him on the throne, at his side to pull the strings until an assassin removed one or both of us. I could have kept him cloistered, acting as his representative to an intermediary who would govern the land until Harry was of age. I could have taken him straight to a friendly liege and had him protected until such time that he could take his rightful place by force or guile.

Or I could simply have killed him.

On my own, I could move faster. I had no need of power or money for myself. He'd never be in danger again. With Harry gone, with Harry safe, I would need to worry about my own life no longer. I would be of no use to anyone alive or dead; the new crown would not care, for I would bear no witness and present no proof. Everything would be wrapped up in one neat package. After all, what was one soul?

Yet, the only reason any of this crossed my mind is because I did not think myself worthy of Arthur's loyalty. He knew nothing of me. Perhaps I was set to ransom Harry, to use him to advance myself, to abuse him in the most shameful ways. Each and every one of us is capable of such things, no matter how much we deny it to ourselves and the world. It is only our choices that keep us from the descent.

"No. You should be very much alive." I lifted my hand to him, and he moved closer. So trusting. He reached for my hand, and then recoiled in disgust.

"Your hand is all slimy."

The absurdity of our situation hit me all at once and I laughed out loud. So seldom did I laugh in those years that Harry was startled for a moment before joining in.

"I have an idea." I scraped a handful of the moss from the roof to reveal a narrow ridge of dirt packed between two cracked shingles. "No one will recognize us if we look like we belong here." I smeared dirt across Harry's cheeks and chin before wiping the stuff across my own face. A few slashes with my knife, a rip, a tear, and we looked almost too poor for our section of town. "There. We look a pair of vagabonds. Shall we go?"

Harry nodded, and we were soon climbing in through our window and over the broken glass. I carried Pip so that he wouldn't cut his paws. There was nothing here worth keeping that we hadn't already packed except for a few half-burnt candles. Waste not, want not. I took only a woolen blanket from the bedding we had been provided and left coin against the damage and loss.

We hurried down the stairs, feet soft and swift. As we reached the door, an arm shot out of the shadows and caught my cloak.

"A word?"

I froze, then turned my head slowly. I took in the soldier's red doublet, embroidered with a leaping stag. His boots were muddy and his breeches were rain-soaked. At his side was the familiar curved sword that was the mark of one new to the ranks. I'd been traveling with James and Lily long enough that I'd missed several new promotions. Perhaps he would not know me by sight.

If he did, his face did not betray him then. The soldier was young; only the merest trace of down dusted his upper lip. He still had the rounded curves of childhood. He must have been either tremendously talented or sufficiently obsequious to have joined a search detail so young. His posture gave him away. There was a droop to his shoulders. He was no soldier of mine.

He wanted a word, so I gave him one. "Valor."

The young man looked confused, his eyebrows drawing together. I wanted to kick myself immediately for my impossible mouth. Now he'd remember me for certain.

"Would you step inside, please?" He opened the door behind him. With Harry in tow, I stepped past the guard and into our landlady's rooms.

The old woman sat in her chair before the fire, head down. Her gnarled hands were tangled in her knitting and her face was scrunched into an expression of annoyance.

"I ask you again. Have. You. Seen. This. Man." A second soldier, slick and oily despite the road stains on his clothing, waved parchment under her nose. "Look at it." I knew this kind of soldier. A bully. He cared for nothing except his answer. He was not one I had selected from the hopefuls the last time men were needed, and for that I was profoundly grateful.

Our landlady moaned dully and raised a hand to her eyes. "I've already told you. No." She let out a wretched sob.

"I think you lie." The second soldier, no older than the first, knocked her knitting to the floor.

That went beyond the pale. "She speaks the truth. Have you not looked at her eyes?" He acted no worse than I had in my youth, but something in his tone rattled me.

The first soldier hunkered beside our landlady's chair. "I think he's right. She doesn't have any answers for us."

Disgruntled, the second soldier rounded on us. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Out," I replied with as much calm as I could manage, though my pulse was still jumping from the events of the morning.

"You take your kit to go out?" He eyed the bag slung over my shoulder. "How odd that the craftsmanship of the south has traveled so far."

"I once traveled far to the south, and made a fair trade." My voice quavered slightly on the last word. "Is there anything more?"

The stained soldier was not ready to give up so easily. "Your kit. Why do you carry it?"

"There was an unfortunate accident. The ice on our window grew too heavy, and it broke. We must find new lodgings." This elicited no response, other than a mild look of interest. "The room at the top of the stairs," I supplied.

At a nod from our inquisitor, the first soldier went to investigate.

The second soldier had more questions for us. "Have you seen this man?"

The sketch on the parchment was very nearly me. I had once been better-fed and better groomed. Now, when I looked in the mirror to shave, I had to maneuver the strap over sharp angles and my head was shaggy and wild. There were lines around my mouth and circles under my eyes. I gave a half-truth. "No." At least, not in a long time.

"What about you?" The second soldier stepped around me with a suspicious look and put the parchment in Harry's hands. "Have you seen this man?"

Harry's hands shook.

The second solider continued. "Terrible man. Have you been to the south?" He waited for Harry to shake his head. "No? This man is wanted there. He killed a king. And a queen. And a little boy. A great tragedy. Oh, no, my mistake. The little boy is alive." He slipped a drawing of Harry on top of the one he already held. "This is what the little boy looks like. Maybe he is one of your friends."

I leaned over Harry's shoulder. This one was a sketch of a portrait he'd sat for two years ago, and in a formal style--I knew Harry in it because I knew the original. I wondered if anyone else would. "I've never seen a little boy quite like that. Such perfect features." With that, I ran a hand over Harry's hair, ruffling the strands so that the scar on his forehead was visible. "Unlike village children, who get into scrapes wherever they go." I dropped my hand to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze for courage.

Harry's voice was small but clear. "I have never seen this man. And I do not know this boy." He rolled up the parchments and handed them back defiantly.

"May we go?" I asked.

"I'm not certain you should. Perhaps you have robbed this woman...blind? Once my comrade checks to see if your story holds true or not, I will make my decision."

"You have no power here," I snapped. "These lands are not controlled by your king. As a resident I demand that you let us pass."

That man had the gall to draw his sword. Mine I had hidden at Dumbledore's, as it might be recognized and was far too fine a blade for the common man to carry. With no arms of my own, I could still have killed him, but he was not to know that he had no business pointing anything at my throat.

In another second I would have had the sword in my hand and the soldier would have spilled his blood on the floor. However, the first soldier came in again, out of breath from the climb to the attic and back. "It is as he says. There is a dreadful mess. Water and wood everywhere. I don't know how they'll fix it up again. What are you doing?"

The second soldier pointed the tip of his sword back into his scabbard. "Making certain that this...resident...does not make off with the rent."

"Ah, well," said the first one, "I've brought down the payment." He tipped the coins I had left upstairs into the old woman's lap. She clutched them to her chest, still frightened. "Have you asked them everything?"

"Not quite," replied the second soldier. "I believe the boy may be lying."

The second soldier was too cruel for his own good; the first was too kind. "Don't be scared, young master. What's your name?"

"Neville."

Tell me, have you lived here all of your life?" Harry nodded in response. "And never been in the south?"

"Never," Harry answered.

"You didn't go with your uncle when he went south?" So, he was kind but treacherous.

"When my father went south, I stayed here with my mother. She's dead now."

I realized that I was staring openly at Harry, and closed my mouth with an audible click when my teeth met. Harry was amazing. He would save us all.

The second soldier sighed. "Let's be gone."

Still holding Harry for support, I watched through the window as our two soldiers mounted their horses and joined a group that rode east, following those who had questioned the Weasleys this morning. The youngest would be last. The road outside would be clear. The road going the opposite way would be ours, if we wanted to take it. I led Harry into the hall and closed the door on the old woman, who was still recovering from the ordeal.

"Thank you, Harry."

I once met a man from far to the east who spoke of actions, and how our actions bring woe or fortune to ourselves. For all things good, we are to receive good times ourselves. For all wrongful deeds, we shall be revisited by three times the misfortune. Thus, to rescue another, to even risk one's life for another, is one of the greatest gifts that can be given. Somehow, the world had gone wrong. I had not saved James and Lily, but their son had saved me. He and I would make our way forth as a family. In the spring, we'd go outside.

"Thank you for saving my life."